Chapter Text
The bus ride to the Edonia BSAA North Base is exactly four hours of vibrating metal and the smell of stale upholstery. You spend most of it staring out the window, watching the lush European countryside slowly transition into the jagged, grey architecture of a military stronghold.
You've spent years preparing for this. The gruelling physicals, the psych evaluations, the endless hours at private ranges until your shoulder was bruised purple from the kickback. You didn't come here to make friends or to find yourself. You came here because the world is getting weirder— bioweapons, outbreaks, things that go bump in the night and melt into puddles of goo— and you'd rather be the person with the gun than the person running away.
The bus hisses to a stop in a sprawling courtyard. When the doors creak open, the air hits you— crisp, cold, and smelling faintly of jet fuel.
"Alright, ladies and gents, off the bus! Gear in hand, heels on the pavement! Let's go!"
The voice is a jagged rasp. You grab your duffel bag, the strap digging into your collarbone, and step out. The sun is bright but lacks any real warmth, glinting off the high-security fences and the glass of the watchtowers.
You find yourself standing in a line of about thirty other recruits. To your left is a guy who looks like he's never missed a day at the gym in his life, sweating through his t-shirt despite the chill. To your right, standing on the sidelines, is a woman with short, bleached hair who looks like she's trying very hard to hide how much enjoyment she's getting out of watching the newest recruits tremble.
"Welcome to the BSAA Training Academy," the Sergeant— Waters, according to his name tag— bellows, walking down the line. "Most of you are here because you were the best in your local police force or your national guard, or you're just some straggler who showed a lot of promise in your entrance exam. Out here? You are nothing. You are soft, unrefined clay. My job is to bake you in the kiln until you're hard enough to withstand a B.O.W. bite. Or, more likely, you'll crack and I'll sweep you into the trash."
He stops in front of you. You keep your eyes locked forward, staring at a point on the wall behind him. He lingers for a second, his eyes scanning your posture, before moving on.
"Check your tablets for your bunk assignments. You have twenty minutes to find your room, drop your gear, and get to the mess hall for orientation. If you're a second late, you're doing laps until your lungs bleed. Move!"
The line breaks into a chaotic scramble. You pull your tablet from your bag, tapping the screen.
Bldg B – Room 204. Roommate: Sterling, R.
You navigate the maze of concrete corridors, the sound of combat boots echoing like a drumline. Building B is a drab, three-story block. You find 204 on the second floor and push the door open.
The room is tiny. Two twin beds with thin, navy blue wool blankets, two metal lockers, and one small window that looks out over the motor pool. One of the beds is already claimed; a duffel bag is tossed onto it, and a pair of polished boots sits neatly underneath.
"Oh, hey! You're the roommate."
A guy pops up from behind the locker. He's tall, with a grin that seems a bit too bright for a place that smells like industrial cleaner. This must be Sterling. He's got that "varsity quarterback" vibe— the kind of guy who probably thinks this is all just a very intense summer camp.
"I'm Ryan," he says, sticking out a hand, his accent so thick it slams you in the chest. "Transferring in from the tactical unit in London. You?"
"Brought in through the private recruitment track," you say, giving his hand a firm, brief shake before tossing your bag onto the empty bed. You're already mentally cataloguing the space. You need to keep your gear organised. Speed is everything in a drill.
"Private track? Damn," Ryan whistles. "That means your scores must have been insane. I heard they only pull five people a year for that. Glad you're on my side, then. I was worried I'd get stuck with a snorer."
He chatters on— something about the food he heard they serve here— but your attention is caught by the window. Down below, a group of soldiers in full tactical gear is jogging in perfect formation. At the head of the pack is a younger man, his pace steady, his expression focused. He isn't yelling like the others; he's just leading by example.
"Who's that?" you ask, nodding toward the window.
Ryan leans over your shoulder to look. "Oh, that's the talk of the barracks. Piers Nivans. He's three years ahead of us in the elite program, but he's helping out with the new intake as a kind of stand-in instructor if they need him. They say he was hand-picked by Alpha Team's legend himself. Total golden boy. Apparently, the guy doesn't have a single 'low' score on his record."
You watch Nivans for a moment longer. He moves with a sort of lethal grace, even in a simple jog. He looks disciplined. Predictable. The kind of person who follows every rule to the letter because the rules make sense to him.
"Golden boy, huh?" you mutter, pulling your gaze away and turning back to your locker.
"Yeah. Some of the guys are already annoyed by it. Me? I just want to know what he uses on his hair to keep it like that during a five-mile run," Ryan jokes.
You check your watch. Fifteen minutes left.
"We should go," you say, sliding your locker key into your pocket. "Waters didn't look like the type to appreciate a joke about hair product."
As you head out the door with Ryan, you feel the first real prickle of adrenaline. This is it. The foundation. You're just another name on a digital list right now, just another recruit in a sea of green and tan. But as you walk toward the mess hall, passing the "golden boy" and his squad on the way, you can't help but wonder how long it'll take for someone like Piers Nivans to notice that the new intake has a predator in its midst.
You don't just want to pass this program. You want to dominate it. And if that means knocking a few stars off the golden boy's jacket, so be it.
The mess hall is a cavernous space of corrugated metal and fluorescent lights that hum with a low, irritating frequency. It smells like industrial-grade floor wax and steamed cabbage— the universal scent of military discipline.
As you and Ryan walk in, the noise hits you like a physical wall. Hundreds of recruits and active-duty officers are scattered across long, stainless steel tables. There's a clear unspoken geography here: the veterans sit near the windows, relaxed and loud; the middle-tier recruits are huddled in the centre, trying to look busy; and then there are the "Fresh Meat" tables near the kitchen, where the air is thick with nerves.
"Looks like we’re over there," Ryan says, gesturing toward a table where a few people from your bus have already slumped.
You grab a plastic tray and slide it along the metal rails of the serving line. A kitchen worker with a permanent scowl plops a scoop of something beige and gelatinous onto your plate. You don't complain. You just take your tray and find a seat at the end of the table, sitting with your back to the wall. It's an old habit— always keep the exits in sight.
"I'm telling you, the physical is going to be the easy part," a guy across from you is saying. He's leaning forward, his voice hushed and urgent. This is the guy you noticed earlier— the one who looked like he lived in a gym. "It's the psychological conditioning. I heard they put you in a room with a holographic B.O.W. just to see if you piss yourself."
"I'd worry more about the equipment checks," the girl with the bleached hair— whose name tag reads Higgins— mutters, poking at her food. "If your rifle isn't clean enough to eat off of, Waters makes you scrub the tarmac with a toothbrush."
Ryan slides in next to you, digging into his food like it's a five-star meal. "Hey, look. Entry-level drama already. I love it."
You don't join the conversation. Instead, your eyes drift across the room. That's when you see him again.
Piers Nivans is sitting a few tables away, surrounded by a small group of what look like instructors-in-training and a couple of senior recruits. He isn't loud like the guys around him. While they're boisterous, recounting stories of field exercises, Piers is listening. He leans back slightly, a water bottle in one hand, nodding as someone speaks.
There's a strange gravity to him. He doesn't have to demand attention; people just seem to offer it to him.
Suddenly, as if he can feel the weight of your stare, Piers shifts his head. His eyes— sharp, observant hazel— scan the room before landing directly on yours.
You don't look away.
For a long, lingering five seconds, you just watch each other across the sea of beige food and buzzing recruits. He doesn't smirk, and he doesn't look annoyed. He looks analytical. He's assessing you, probably wondering which "category" you fall into. The flunker? The average Joe? The washout?
He offers a small, almost imperceptible nod— a polite acknowledgement of a fellow soldier— and then turns back to his conversation.
"Uh oh," Ryan whispers, leaning in close. "You've been marked."
"Shut up, Ryan," you say, finally looking down at your tray.
"I'm serious! That was a look. He's probably wondering if you're the one who's going to break his record on the obstacle course tomorrow."
"He doesn't even know my name," you reply, though your pulse quickens just a fraction.
"He will," a new voice joins in.
You look up to see a tall, lean guy standing at the end of your table. He's wearing a BSAA t-shirt that's a size too small, showing off arms that are covered in intricate black-and-grey tattoos. This must be 'The Hotshot' from the other rumours Ryan filled you in on on your way over to the mess— Miller. He has a grin that's entirely too confident, the kind of look that says he's never been told 'no' in his life.
"I'm Miller," he says, ignoring the guys and looking straight at you. "Saw you coming off the bus. You look like you actually know how to hold a rifle. Most of these guys look like they'd trip over their own laces."
"I managed," you say shortly.
Miller chuckles, sliding into the empty seat across from you without being invited. "Well, stick with me and my crew. We're going to be the ones running this place in a month. No point wasting time with the losers who'll be gone by Friday." He glances over his shoulder at Piers's table, his lip curling slightly. "And don't worry about Nivans. He's just the Captain's pet. All textbook, no soul. Some of us prefer to do things with a bit more... Flair."
The arrogance is thick enough to choke on. You look at Miller, then back at Piers— who is currently laughing at something a teammate said, looking perfectly human and grounded— and then back to Miller.
"I think I'll stick to my own 'flair,' thanks," you say, standing up and grabbing your tray.
"Your loss," Miller calls out, though he doesn't sound offended. He just sounds like he's already decided you're a prize he's going to win later.
As you walk toward the tray return, you have to pass Piers's table again. You keep your head down, focusing on the exit, but you hear his voice— clear and steady— break through the noise.
"Keep the pace steady tomorrow, guys. The humidity is going to be a killer on the three-mile."
It's a simple, helpful piece of advice. He's looking out for his team. You find yourself tightening your grip on the plastic tray. You aren't his team. Not yet. You're just the competition.
And as you walk out into the cooling Edonian night, you can still feel that analytical gaze of his burning into the back of your head.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
0600
The room is pitch black when you sit up, your heart hammering against your ribs. Across the small gap, Ryan groans, falling out of bed with a thud that sounds painful.
"Is it war?" he mumbles, face pressed against the linoleum. "Tell them I surrender."
"Get up, Ryan," you hiss, already reaching for your uniform. "Waters gives us ten minutes. If you're late, I'm not dragging your corpse to the assembly point."
You move with practised economy. Socks, boots— laced tight enough to cut off circulation— and the stiff, starch-heavy fatigues that smell like a warehouse. By the time you're cinching your belt, Ryan is scrambling, swearing under his breath as he fumbles with his laces. You don't wait for him; you head into the hallway, which is already a chaotic river of half-awake recruits stumbling toward the courtyard.
Outside, the Edonian air is biting. A thick mist clings to the ground, turning the floodlights into blurry, ethereal orbs.
"Line up! Double time!"
Sergeant Waters is already there, looking like he hasn't slept a day in his life and is perfectly fine with that. But he isn't alone. Standing just behind him, clad in a sleek BSAA windbreaker with his hands clasped behind his back, is Piers Nivans.
In the harsh, artificial light, he looks different than he did in the mess hall. The "Golden Boy" persona is stripped back, replaced by a focused, military precision. He's watching the intake with a hawk-like intensity, his eyes tracking every stumble, every unbuttoned pocket, every yawn.
"Six minutes," Piers says quietly, checking his watch. His voice isn't loud, but it carries through the damp air better than Waters's shouting. "You're slow. In the field, being slow is how you end up in a body bag."
You fall into line, back straight, chin tucked. You happen to end up in the front row. Piers walks down the line, following Waters. While Waters is busy screaming in a recruit's face about a missed belt loop, Piers is doing the slow, sweeping, very silent inspection.
He stops in front of you.
You don't breathe. You can smell the faint scent of laundry detergent and something entirely masculine clinging to him. He's close enough that you can see the slight stubble along his jawline and the way the mist has beaded in his brown hair.
His gaze starts at your boots and travels upward. It's not a "look-over"— it's a scan. He's looking for a weakness, a flaw in the armour. When his eyes meet yours, you hold them. You don't offer a smirk or a challenge; you just give him the same professional coldness he's projecting.
A ghost of a frown touches his lips. He notices your "Private Recruit" patch— the silver trim that marks you as someone the BSAA hunted down, rather than someone who applied.
"Recruit," he says, his voice a low vibration. "Checking your equipment is one thing. Being ready to use it is another. I hope you brought more than just a high aptitude score to my camp."
"I brought enough, sir," you reply, the 'sir' tasting a bit like copper on your tongue.
He lingers for a heartbeat longer than necessary. There's a flicker of something— maybe respect, maybe just heightened curiosity— before he moves on to the next person.
"Alright, listen up!" Waters yells, stepping back to the centre. "First thing on the menu: a five-mile warm-up. If you fall behind, you start over. Nivans is going to set the pace. If he laps you, you're doing fifty push-ups in the mud. Move!"
Piers turns on a dime and begins a steady, rhythmic jog toward the perimeter fence. The group follows, a messy stampede of boots hitting gravel.
Within the first mile, the gym rats like Miller are at the front, trying to show off. Miller is practically sprinting, looking back to see if you're watching. You aren't. You're watching Piers.
Piers isn't sprinting. He's maintaining a pace that is deceptively fast and utterly sustainable. He moves like a machine— shoulders relaxed, breathing controlled. You tuck in behind him, about three paces back.
By mile three, the flashy sprinters are starting to wheeze. The humidity Piers mentioned yesterday is no joke; the mist has turned into a heavy, wet heat that clings to your lungs. Miller has dropped back, his face a bright shade of purple.
You, however, are right where you started. Three paces behind Piers.
He glances over his shoulder, his brow slightly damp but his breathing still even. He sees you there— steady, refusing to give an inch. You see his eyes widen just a fraction. He pushes the pace, just a little bit faster, a silent test.
You match it instantly.
The two of you pull away from the main pack, leaving the sounds of gasping recruits behind. For a moment, it's just the two of you in the grey Edonian morning— the sound of two sets of boots hitting the earth in perfect synchronisation.
He's trying to figure you out by pushing your physical limits, and you're answering him with every stride. You aren't just a recruit; you're a shadow he can't shake.
"Not bad," he grunts, not looking back this time.
"Saving my breath for the last mile," you reply.
You see his shoulders set. The competition hasn't even officially started, but as the sun begins to bleed through the fog, one thing is clear: Piers Nivans has finally found someone who can keep up.
The five-mile run doesn't end with a finish line; it ends with a collective collapse in the dirt. Most of the recruits are doubled over, hands on knees, gasping for air that feels like liquid lead. Miller is one of them, his "flair" currently dampened by a layer of sweat and a very bruised ego.
You stand a few yards away, chest heaving, but you stay upright. It's a point of pride. You catch Piers a few feet ahead, wiping himself down with a towel someone handed him. He looks remarkably composed, though a dark patch of sweat stains the back of his BSAA shirt. He's talking to Waters, but his eyes drift— just for a second— toward you. He notes your posture, the way you aren't folding under the strain, and he lingers there just a beat too long before turning back to the Sergeant.
"Back to the barracks! Fifteen minutes to shower and change!" Waters bellows. "If I smell a single one of you in the classroom, you're sleeping in the stables!"
The walk back is a chorus of groans.
"I think... my soul... stayed back at mile four," Ryan wheezes, leaning heavily on your shoulder as you trek toward Building B.
"Your soul is fine, Sterling. It's just your cardio that's pathetic," Higgins says, though she doesn't look much better. Her bleached hair is plastered to her forehead, and she's limping slightly.
"Did you see her, though?" Ryan asks, nodding toward you with a weak grin. "She was practically drafting off Nivans. I thought he was going to start sprinting just to get away from her."
"I wasn't drafting," you say, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. "I was just maintaining pace."
"Sure, and I'm the Queen of England," Higgins snorts, but there's a new glimmer of respect in her eyes. "Seriously, though. You're the first person I've seen actually push him. He usually looks like he's taking a casual stroll while the rest of us are dying."
By the time you all hit the showers and change into fresh fatigues, the atmosphere has shifted. The initial "every man for himself" tension from the bus has started to melt into something else. In the communal locker room, Ryan and Higgins have claimed the bench next to yours, and a few other recruits— the ones who didn't spend the morning bragging— are gravitating toward the three of you.
You're the "Quiet One" who outran the Golden Boy. Ryan is the "Talker." Higgins is the "Sceptic." It's the beginning of a foundation you didn't know you were building.
"Breakfast. Now. Before I eat my own boots," Ryan declares, hauling his bag over his shoulder.
The mess hall is quieter now, the initial morning rush over. You find the same table as before, but this time, you don't sit with your back to the wall alone. Ryan slides in on your left, and Higgins drops her tray on your right.
"So," Higgins says, stabbing a piece of questionable sausage. "What's the deal? Private recruit track. You some kind of secret agent?"
"Just a good shot with a lot of practice," you say, opening a carton of orange juice.
"Modest," a voice booms.
You look up to see Miller. He's recovered, his hair gelled back into place, looking like he didn't just spend the last hour dry-heaving in the grass. He leans over the table, ignoring Ryan and Higgins entirely.
"That was a cute stunt on the run," Miller says, his eyes roaming your face. "But don't get used to it. Nivans was just being polite. He's a 'by the book' guy— he won't let a girl take his spot at the top of the leaderboard for long."
You feel the air at the table go cold. Ryan stops chewing. Higgins narrows her eyes.
"Is that right?" you ask, your voice dangerously calm. "And where were you on that leaderboard, Miller? I don't remember seeing you in the top ten."
Higgins lets out a sharp, bark-like laugh. Ryan hides a grin behind his juice box.
Miller's face darkens, the "charming" mask slipping to reveal a petulant, jagged edge. "I was pacing myself. Long game, sweetheart. You'll burn out by the end of the week."
"I'll be sure to send you a postcard from the finish line," you reply.
Miller scoffs and turns on his heel, heading toward a table of his own cronies.
"God, what a tool," Higgins mutters. "I hope he trips on his own ego and breaks a tooth."
"He's not the one you have to worry about," Ryan says, his tone shifting to something more observant. He gestures with his chin toward the centre of the room.
Piers is there, standing near the coffee urns. He's not looking at Miller. He's looking at your table. Specifically, he's watching the way you just handled Miller. There's no annoyance in his expression this time— only a deep, pensive curiosity.
He takes a sip of his black coffee, his eyes never leaving you. He's watching the way you interact with Ryan and Higgins, the way you carry yourself even when you think no one is looking.
And you wonder if he's realised you aren't just a physical threat to his rankings, but that you're a social one, too. You're building a team. You're becoming a centre of gravity.
For Piers Nivans, a man who has lived his life by the book and earned his place through solitary excellence, you are the ultimate puzzle. You're a variable he didn't account for, and as he turns away to head toward the briefing rooms, you realise the real game hasn't even started yet.
The run was just the warm-up. The mess hall was just the introduction. But as you finish your breakfast, you feel the weight of his attention like a physical mark on your skin.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The morning transitions from the heat of the mess hall to the sterile, air-conditioned chill of the Tactical Briefing Room. It's a transition that forces everyone to sober up. The laughter from Ryan and the biting sarcasm from Higgins die down as you all file into rows of tiered seating.
At the front of the room, there's a long table covered in heavy black cases. You recognise the silhouettes immediately— long-range precision rifles. These aren't the standard-issue carbines you've been lugging around for PT. These are the heavy hitters.
Sergeant Waters stands at the podium, but Piers is the one handling the hardware. He moves around the table with a reverence for the machinery that borders on the religious. He picks up a bolt-action assembly, checking the action with a smooth, metallic clack-clack that echoes in the silent room.
"Listen up," Waters growls. "Most of you think a sniper is just a guy who sits in a nest and waits. Wrong. A sniper is a mathematician who knows how to kill. Today, we see if any of you have the brain for it. Instructor-in-training Nivans is going to walk you through the specs of the Anti-Material Rifle and the standard SOU bolt-action. Pay attention. He's the best we've got."
Piers steps forward. The fluorescent lights catch the sharp angles of his face as he looks out over the crowd. His eyes find you, hovering for a fraction of a second before he begins.
"Accuracy isn't a gift," Piers starts, his voice echoing with a calm authority. "It's discipline. You have to account for windage, elevation, humidity, and the rotation of the Earth itself. But before any of that, you have to know your weapon."
He begins a meticulous breakdown of the rifle. He talks about the trigger pull, the importance of a clean barrel, and the way the glass in the scope can betray you if you don't know how to read the light. He's in his element here. This isn't just a job for him; it's a craft.
You find yourself leaning forward, your chin resting on your hand. You've heard this lecture a hundred times in your private training, but there's something about the way he says it. He doesn't treat the rifle like a tool; he treats it like an extension of his own body.
"Any questions?" Piers asks, scanning the room.
Miller, sitting two rows down, raises a hand with a lazy smirk. "Yeah. All the math is great, Nivans, but isn't it mostly just instinct? You either have the eye or you don't."
Piers doesn't blink. "Instinct is what gets you killed when the wind shifts ten degrees and you haven't adjusted your dial. Rely on 'instinct' in Edonia, and you'll hit everything except your target."
A few people chuckle. Miller's smirk falters.
Piers turns his gaze back to you. "What about our private recruit? You've been quiet. I assume someone with your... Background... Has a preference for hardware."
The room goes quiet. Ryan nudges you with his elbow, whispering, "Go on, Top Gun."
You clear your throat, your voice steady. "I prefer the semi-auto for urban environments, but for anything over five hundred meters, give me the bolt-action. Less moving parts, less room for error. And I'd take a fixed 10x scope over a variable zoom any day. Variables are just one more thing that can lose zero in a crawl."
Piers pauses. He actually stops mid-gesture, his hand hovering over a bipod. That's a specific preference— one that usually only comes from someone who has spent hundreds of hours in the dirt, not just someone who has read a manual.
"A fixed 10x," he repeats slowly, a small, genuine spark of interest lighting up his eyes. "Bold choice. It limits your field of view if the target closes the distance."
"If the target closes the distance," you counter, "I've already failed at my job. My job is to make sure they never see me coming."
A heavy silence hangs in the air. Piers looks at you, really looks at you, and for the first time, the "analytical" gaze shifts into something closer to recognition. He's starting to realise that you aren't just a fast runner or a girl who can handle a mouthy recruit like Miller. You're a specialist.
"We'll see if you can back that up," Piers says softly, his voice almost a challenge. "Range is in ten minutes. Grab your gear and report to the firing line."
As the room erupts into the sound of scraping chairs and moving bodies, you stand up, feeling the weight of the day finally settling in. You catch Ryan looking at you with wide eyes.
"Man, the tension between you two is enough to power the whole base," he whispers.
"There's no tension," you say, heading for the door. "It's just a training exercise."
But as you walk toward the range, your heart is thudding against your ribs. You know what's coming. You know that Piers is going to be watching every breath you take, every twitch of your finger. He's determined to see if you're the real deal or just a girl with a good line of dialogue.
And as you step out onto the gravel of the range, feeling the wind kick up—the same wind Piers is currently calculating in his head— you know that this is the moment. This is where the foundation ends, and the real competition begins.
The air at the Edonia BSAA Training Facility tastes like grit, overpriced espresso, and the sharp, metallic tang of gun oil. It's a sensory assault that you've quickly learned to call home.
You stand at the edge of the firing range, the morning sun still low enough to cast long, jagged shadows across the gravel. You're adjusting the strap of your tactical vest, feeling the weight of the bolt-action rifle slung over your shoulder. You didn't get here by being "pretty good." You got here by being the person who hits the target when everyone else is still squinting at the windage.
"Heads up, everyone! Listen up!"
The voice belongs to Sergeant Waters. You turn, joining the semi-circle of recruits. Most of them are what you'd expect: brick-shithouse builds with buzzcuts and a desperate need to prove they're the next Chris Redfield.
And then, there's him.
He's standing slightly to the left, his posture perfect— not stiff, just naturally disciplined. He's younger than some of the veterans here, but there's a quiet intensity in his hazel eyes that suggests he's already seen more than he lets on. His hair is a mess of dark spikes that shouldn't be "regulation," yet somehow looks intentional.
"That's Nivans," a recruit whispers next to you. "Captain's already got an eye on him for the SOU."
You don't respond. You already know who it is. You just watch as he checks his equipment with an almost hypnotic efficiency. He doesn't look like a "hotshot." He looks like a professional.
"Today is simple," Waters barks. "Long-range precision. Eight hundred meters. Moving targets. One shot, one kill. If you miss, you're on latrine duty for a week. Nivans! You're up first."
The group ripples with anticipation. Piers steps forward, his expression neutral. He doesn't boast; he doesn't smirk. He simply drops into a prone position, his body becoming one with the rifle.
Crack.
The sound echoes off the surrounding hills. A second later, the digital readout on the monitor flashes a green '10'. He doesn't wait for the applause.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Four shots. Four bullseyes. The recruits whistle, some clapping him on the back as he stands up and brushes the dirt from his fatigues. He catches your eye for a split second— a look of mild, polite confidence. It's the look of someone who knows exactly where he stands in the food chain.
"Alright, alright, settle down," Waters growls. "Next up... let's see if the high scores on the entrance exam weren't a fluke. You! Front and centre."
Waters points a meaty finger at you.
You feel the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes on you, including Piers's. You can feel him watching, curious but likely expecting you to be "good for a rookie." You don't say a word. You walk to the line, feeling the familiar pull of the earth as you drop into the dirt.
The world shrinks. There is no training camp. There is no "Golden Boy." There is only the glass of the scope, the erratic dance of the wind, and the rhythm of your own heart.
The targets start to move. They're faster than the ones Piers faced— Waters has dialled up the difficulty just to see you sweat.
Breathe in. Half-way out. Hold.
The first shot isn't just a hit; it's dead centre.
You don't reset. You don't pause to admire it. You transition to the second target, leading it by a hair's breadth to account for the crosswind.
Crack. Another green '10'. You feel the atmosphere behind you shift. The murmuring stops. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Piers lean in slightly, his arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowing.
The final target is a "jumper"— it pops up at an angle, 850 meters out, disappearing behind a concrete barrier in less than three seconds. It's a trick shot. It's meant to be missed.
You don't blink. You pull the trigger before the target even fully clears the barrier, calculating the trajectory by instinct alone.
The silence that follows is deafening. Then, the monitor flashes: 10.5 (X). A perfect centre-point hit.
You stand up, shouldering your rifle with a calm you don't entirely feel. Your heart is hammering, but your face is a mask of cool indifference. As you walk back toward the group, you have to pass Piers.
He's staring at the monitor, then back at you. For the first time, that polite, neutral mask of his has a crack in it. There's a flash of genuine annoyance in his eyes— the sting of a competitor who just realised he's no longer the only apex predator in the room. But underneath the annoyance, there’s something else. A spark of intrigue.
"Nice lead on that last one," he says, his voice a smooth, low baritone. He tries to sound casual, but there's a tightness in his jaw.
"Thanks," you reply, not stopping. "Try not to let the sun get in your eyes next time, Nivans. Might help with your grouping."
You don't look back, but you can practically feel the heat of his gaze on your shoulder blades. Chris Redfield's Chosen just got a reality check, and you have a feeling he's going to spend the rest of the day trying to figure out exactly how you just outshot him.